Skirah : Beginnings
by Itafox
Summary: First upload! The story is about Skirah, my made up serial killer, in his earlier days. After killing his father during a small fight, Justin Takada becomes a judge over whether or not people should die. Can he succeed in becoming a famous killer?
1. An Introduction, nothing more

_**Before you read: This story is about a serial killer that I made up. He isn't based on anybody, and any names that sound familiar (besides references and the use of the names in Horror films, music, comics, companies ect) are completely coincidence. Anything in here that is from a certain company, show or ect belongs to that company or ect and is not mine. Do not follow this character (Like making a shrine to him and worshipping him) . Do not kill people please....**_

Everything starts somewhere. Be it a child or a planet, they both started out as something else. But over time, they become something bigger, better, with a sharper mind and skill. Why? Why can't they be born something big, and just die having reached their best potential? Why must everytime I pick up that knife or axe, slice them up and throw them out, they have to be still writhing, wanting to become something better? Even I am still growing, and for that, I hate it and everyone else who has it. And that, my friends, are almost everyone.

We also have something called flaws, and there are people who have more flaws than others. I find that a little unfair, but that must be how the world goes. It's cruel, but true. So when I look upon the faces of my victims, at their perfectly pretty expressions or their horribly mutated ones, I ask this every time. We all have flaws, and that cannot be solved. Or can it?

My duty, dear listening individuals, is to stop the flaws from spreading, and to stop others from becoming like me. Always trying to become better, going against a race we are just too small to win. I keep them from achieving this thought of useless potential, because we never become our best. And we don't realize it until we're dead and gone. An early death can make everything better. And the more elaborate, the more potential is erased. And I have to admit, partially the more elaborate, torturing deaths are for pleasure, as I must make some use of my time here. A decent smash of a machete to the skull is fast, something used when I am in a rush. I never use guns, prefering to see the blood of the individual. I also use gullotines, acid tanks, poisons of many sorts, wires....ect ect.

But enough of that, what you guys want to see is the beginning of my story. The day when I decided my dream job was to be a serial judge. No not killer, judge, since I put judgement on my kills. Makes sense? Well, in my first few days alone before joining some friends, my days were different. I was at the beginning of my killing story, not that good with the knife. Back then, my style was not as planned and perfect as I hoped. In fact, back then, I copied several guys from movies I watched. Funny eh? Well, to me that was serious at first.

So sit back and relax, pull out a bag or two of guts and blood, and get ready for my story. The story of me, Skirah, once known as Justin Takada.


	2. Living Without Reason

My beginning was just like everyone else. I was born into the world, loved by my mother and was to grow up like everyone else. However, I didn't exactly have the best childhood. Constantly, my mother and father fought back and forth, and it wasn't long before a divorce was sent out. I was 4 at the time, and had been born a prodigy, which meant I was rather smart for a kid. At the time, my mother worked as a waitress, and her long hours, low pay and sheer lack of hygeine marked her unable to take care of me, so I was shipped out to live with my Dad. My Dad was a joke. He was an alchoholic, did a lot of weed and smoked almost every minute. I would never walk into the same room as he did unless forced, and I would never do anything he tried, especially when it came to getting high. Whenever he was angry, he'd beat me until I was bleeding and throw me into my room. We had money alright, but it was spent on a lot of drugs and I never had my own bed. Just a couch that had been rescued from the junkyard.

Dad worked as a janitor for the same school I went to. He obviously spat at every friend I had, and more than once my friends got mad at me for it. I lost many friends, until one gang found me and I began to become like them. A loner groupie. We hanged around, drawing messed up doodles of death and torture, practiced instruments, wondering if we could make a band. But I knew that wasn't the life for me. I knew my Dad would not allow me to run with them for long, become a rock star. Not with my childhood. So Dad broke any instrument I tried and pretended he had fixed it.

''Yeah I fixed the piano.'' He'd say. Yeah, the piano's perfectly fixed, with broken keys standing upright and the top completely sawed off. God I hated life then. Many times my group thought of making a mass suicide. However, I declined. My life was more important than these loners realized. Even if I (at the time) didn't realize my dream job, I knew I had something better coming up for me. It only took patience, and something would happen.

That something took place on a Wednesday, when I was 16 years old and knew how to drive. I looked ready to hang with the bunch of loners. My skin was pale at the time, my hair covering one eye, eyeliner showing the dark circles under my eyes. I wore my black hoodie and skinny jeans, a nice chain attached to the side. Ready to hang out with my friends. There was an electric guitar hidden in my closet, one I had learned to play. Today was the day that my friends and I would play in public, around the pizza shop. It would attract attention, and we would be asked to play more. Hopefully the more they liked us, the better chance we'd get to be sponserd.

So here I was, just grabbing my guitar, when my father busts in, drunk and smoking. I'm not sure what angered him. The fact I was about to walk out of this house or the fact I had an instrument he had not yet broken. All I know is that he screamed at me, ran towards me and slammed me onto my couch. I felt him punch my face several times, and the warm feel of blood coming from my nose started to anger me. What if he was trying to kill me? I didn't want to die. Instinct kicked in, and I screamed, shocking him and before I even knew it, I had kicked him in the groin. His eyes were wide and he got off of me. One way to get a large guy off of a skinny guy. And I didn't stop there. I leaped to my guitar case and heaved it upwards. My mind was blank, and the only thought I had was-

_**Die.**_

Slam! The guitar case connected with his head. It was light, but solid, and I didn't notice it but the lock actually went inside of his face, cutting into his skull. Another lift and slam, and I cracked the skull open. Of course, I kept slamming that case on his head until there was blood flowing steadily into the carpet, and his face was broken up into sections. Eyes wide, I threw the guitar into the closet and stared to my dead father with wide eyes.

This was my first kill. And it had succeded.

I must've been so scared, shaking and sweating as my mind returned and I fearfully tried to hide the body in my closet. I closed the closet door, backing up and throwing a blanket over the blood puddle. My heart pounded and I was probably seconds away from a breakdown. I don't even know what I was thinking. Here was my father, dead and broken. I was free. Yet I was afraid of it. It took a moment, but I soon stopped my fears and instead tried to focus on this being better. The adrenaline I realized, had felt better than anything I had ever felt before. It was as if my life had just been completed. As if I were born to do this. And I liked it.

Sinking in, this feeling of happiness seemed to wash over me. I licked my lips, tasting the blood that was still dripping. If this was what I was born to do, then why? And then I realized it. Everyone has flaws right? Everyone tries to become the best they can be. Just like my life thus far, where I would try to become something better. My father died out of hatred, but now he had no need to worry on flaws and potential. I could change people, keep them from the lies of life. I would become their judge, and look over them. Like some sort of ruler, or a god. Not a serial killer, but better.

_**A serial judge. **_

And I needed more judgement.


End file.
